


if that ain't love

by talking_tina



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talking_tina/pseuds/talking_tina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Q: Pete, whats yur fav thing to do with a knife? a. stab your self b. stab the guy next to you thats hittin on yur gurl c. stab the monsters in your dreams d. carve in a tree how much luv u have for life</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>A: butter my bread and cut patricks pancakes up into little bites for him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	if that ain't love

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the above Q&A.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using fictional characters based in the likenesses of real people. Never happened, and I do not own these names.

“ _Patrick_!” was all the warning a sleep-addled Patrick Martin Stump got, mind barely jostled from the land of dreams,  before  a firm and bony _thing_ flung itself onto him and sent him almost flailing off the bed.

“Mother _shit_ fuck!” he swore, pushing at the squirmy, bony thing in his lap, which upon closer inspection turned out to be Pete Wentz. “Jesus _Christ_ , Pete, I almost socked you in the face, don’t _do_ that!” Pete only grinned his stupid little grin with those fucking horse teeth of his, one hand gripping and tugging gently at Patrick’s bed-tousled hair.

“But Patrick, _I_ _looooooove you_ ,” he swooned, swooping in once for a sloppy wet kiss to Patrick’s left cheekbone, moppy bangs dangling down to tickle Patrick’s eyebrows. Patrick made a face. “And I wanna make you breakfast!”

“You wanna—wait, what?”

“Breakfast!” Pete exclaimed again. “I’m learning how to bake pancakes.”

Patrick furrowed his eyebrows, seeming thoroughly confused. “You don’t bake pancakes.”

Pete made a dismissive gesture. “Bake, cook, set on fire, same difference.”

Patrick frowned.

Pete simply shrugged. “Hey, if I fuck it up you can make me eat it instead, alright?”

The blonde merely rolls his eyes and smashes his face in his pillow.

X

When Patrick finally garners enough energy to stumble out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and yawning, he is greeted with Pete Wentz in a fucking _apron_ , splatters of pancake batter all over the front and visibly dripping from the stove. He’s about to make a very high-pitched noise of alarm before he notices a plate on the table with little bits of cut up pancakes on it, slices of strawberry and banana on the side and even a glass of orange juice.

The thing is, it actually looks _delicious_.

“Oh,” he says, stunned. “Uh, congratulations?”

Pete turns to him and grins. “Thanks! Hey, turns out this pancake-making thing is actually a piece of cake.” He pauses, furrows his eyebrows. “Pancake-making is a piece of pancake. Hey! That should be a joke.”

Patrick is way too tired to try to figure out any kind of Wentz-humor, but he still smiles sleepily at the remark anyway. “It’s hysterical. Hey, so you actually made these?” He asks, sliding into his chair and pulling the plate towards himself. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe Pete had actually made something that wasn’t prepared by shoving it in the microwave for thirty seconds.

Pete only grins at him, all cheeky and proud, and settles himself in the seat opposite him. “Yeah, dude! I already had a few, if you don’t mind. _I_ think they turned out awesome, what do you think?”

Patrick prods the pancake with his fork, raising an eyebrow at the perfect texture, before lifting a piece to his mouth and chewing.

“It’s good, Pete,” he says after he’s swallowed. “I—thanks, actually, for this. This is really nice.”

He means it when he says that, and when Pete flashes back an award-winning smile he thinks Pete means it too.


End file.
